


Promises to Keep

by celestineangel



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Abduction, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-04
Updated: 2011-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 21:16:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestineangel/pseuds/celestineangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Promises made must be kept, even after tragedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill for [this prompt](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/9742.html?thread=19133454) at inception_kink. I am so sorry… the prompt was so adorabible, and I've turned it into angst and drama….

  
**Promises to Keep (Part One)**   


They are a strangely matched pair, the young American mother and the older—but not _old_ , never old—British mother. They sit on a park bench sharing stories, laughing, and watching their sons get to know each other, and they have no idea of the course their lives will take.

Paola is twenty now, but she was seventeen when her son was born, and he looks just like the father who ran away. It doesn't matter, she loves her Arthur anyway, because he is sweeter than his father could dream, and she plans to make certain he stays that way. She watches his from the corner of her eye, toddling around with Sophia's boy, Thomas, who is surprisingly attentive to the boy four years younger than him. Arthur is a serious child, which might be Paola's fault, but when there's only the two of them, sometimes work must come before play.

Sophia Eames is twenty-nine, and she had to make the trip to the States to visit her friend, because Paola can barely afford to keep her and her son fed, clothed, and in a clean living environment, while Sophia has very few worries beyond what to do with herself while her husband does his lordly business. Thomas is not the oldest of her children, but he is, in her secret heart, her favorite. He has his father's eyes and nose, her mouth and ears, but beyond the purely genetic physical resemblances, she's beginning to wonder if he might be a changeling. The quirky humor he displays is nothing of his father, or of her, and can't be found in any of his siblings.

What amuses both mothers is the way little Arthur, serious little Arthur, gives orders and Thomas obeys as though it's the most natural thing in the world, despite the fact that Arthur is three and Thomas is seven. Of course, he usually can't obey without some sort of commentary.

Arthur points at the bucket they've been using to build a castle in the sandbox, "Thomas, get the bucket."

"Aye aye, Captain!" Thomas salutes and obeys, filling the bucket with sand first. He doesn't even dump it over the younger boy's head, a characteristic reaction Sophia has been waiting for with tensed muscles. "You might've gotten it yourself, you know."

Arthur just frowns at him and points where he wants the bucket to go.

"Well," she says to Paola, trying to keep surprise from her voice, "they're getting on well enough."

The younger woman smiles and shrugs. "They're a little like us, I guess. Almost the same age difference, too, and something like that's not going to matter so much to kids."

"I suppose, though Thomas has never been so well-behaved." Sophia's rather serious assertion is met with gentle laughter. "It's true, unfortunately."

"I was wondering where the hell-child you mentioned is hiding."

"I must have left him on the airplane."

Just at that moment, Thomas trots up to them, and Paola takes a look behind him to see Arthur pounding on a lump of sand with his plastic shovel, frowning as it refuses to do as he wants; Thomas must have escaped while her son busied himself with his attempts to mold the world to his desires. The older boy goes not to his mother, but to Paola, and it seems Arthur's seriousness is catching, from the way Thomas locks his grey-blue eyes on hers. "Miss Esposito," he begins, and proceeds as politely as he can manage, "I'd very much like your permission to marry Arthur."

Both mothers' eyebrows go up, and Paola's mouth twitches. "He's a little young for marriage, Mr. Eames," she tells him, "and in my opinion so are you."

"That's all right. I meant when we're older, anyway."

Paola shoots Sophia a glance, revealing amusement in the depths of her dark eyes. Sophia is amused as well, though Lord Eames would be having fits if he could hear his son. "Wouldn't you rather marry a girl of good breeding?" she asks him, something of a joke between herself and Paola.

Thomas makes a face, nose scrunched and his tongue stuck from his mouth for a moment. "No. I want to marry Arthur."

The mothers share another glance, and it's all Paola can do to keep from laughing. Finally, Sophia saves the day by replying to her son with the utmost gravity. "The only thing to do, then, is to have you betrothed."

"What does that mean?"

"It's an agreement that you'll get married to Arthur when you're older," Paola explains. "A promise." One, she suspects, he will forget before long.

His eyes widen slightly, and then he nods. "So you promise I can marry Arthur when we grow up?"

"I promise that when Arthur is eighteen and the two of you still want to get married, you can."

Thomas frowns and looks back over his shoulder at the boy who is now beginning to turn red with frustration. There will be a tantrum soon. "I don't know if Arthur wants to marry me…."

Paola and Sophia both chuckle, and Arthur's mother answers, "You have plenty of time to try to convince him, don't you?"

He nods again, and looks at his mother. "And you promise, too?"

"I do, though I make no promises for your father," Sophia says with a sigh.

Thomas' face brightens with a smile, mostly, Sophia suspects, because he already has a love of all things that irritate his father. "Your promise is good enough! Hey Arthur!" He runs off to his new 'betrothed' to inform him of the good news, and both women are astounded by how easily he averts the oncoming rage by helping Arthur shape the sand closer to what he wants.

"When my husband asks what his son is on about, this is entirely your fault."

Paola laughs.

It's a good thing Paola isn't aware of exactly who Sophia's husband is, or exactly how much money the Eames family controls. That evening, the four of them retreat to Paola's little apartment, which is shamefully tiny, and she prepares a dinner like nothing Sophia has ever had before, even considering the numerous quality restaurant openings and other events she's had the pleasure to attend. When asked why she hasn't made use of this talent, the answer is predictable and sad; the lack of money is prohibitive to someone with ability but no convenient outlet.

In the morning, Sophia invites Paola and Arthur to accompany herself and Thomas to breakfast, and when she returns home she makes time in her otherwise boring day to research.

One month after Sophia's visit, Paola is informed that she has been accepted to a noted culinary school in the city, under a full scholarship. She suspects her friend is responsible, though she does not and will never know that her scholarship is funded by a company based in England and, until a month ago, did not have a scholarship for culinary students.

Eight months later, at the conclusion of the first of two programs, Paola and Arthur fly to England, where they stay with Sophia and her family. While Arthur—now four years old and just as serious as ever—is a huge hit with the older Eames girls, Thomas is the only one he seems to favor, perhaps in part because Thomas doesn't squeal in high-pitched tones and will do whatever Arthur tells him to do.

During their stay, which lasts four months, Paola attends a class with a world-famous chef, recommended to her by one of her instructors. Arthur stays with the Eames' all day while she's away, and only remains calm because of Thomas' presence.

Home in New York after, Paola has to rock her son to sleep more often than usual, and on the phone a week and a half after arriving, learns that Thomas told him bedtime stories every night. Well, every night is a little too often, but after that, she allows a phone call from England one evening a week for Thomas to tell stories, and thanks Sophia for allowing him to stay up just a bit later than he should thanks to the time difference.

One year, two months, three weeks and four days after that first visit, Paola Esposito's world shatters.

 

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

 

It is 11pm, the telephone rings, and Lady Sophia Eames is grateful she and her husband no longer share a bedroom, and that her telephone is connected to a private number. She has no desire whatsoever to listen to Albert grump.

It's Paola, her voice hollow. "Sophia, I'm sorry to bother you, I know it's late."

"Not at all," Sophia says, sitting up, instantly aware of something very wrong. There's no laughter in her friend's voice. "What is it?" There is a pause on the line, and Sophia thinks she can barely hear the sound of Paola holding in sobs. "Oh Paola, what, is it Arthur?"

"S-S-Someone t-took him."

" _What?_ "

"Arthur's g-gone, someone t-t-took him f-from d-d-daycare while I was at w-work."

It's difficult to understand through Paola's sobs, but eventually Sophia coaxes the entire story from her, and if not for years of training on how to be a proper lady, Sophia would like break down with her friend.

It would seem the daycare that doubles as a pre-kindergarten and kindergarten school, allows the children outside for exercise and recess. The yard where they play while teachers and caregivers look on is fenced, any holes spotted are patched immediately, and the only gate is padlocked against intruders or curious children. Perfectly safe, one would assume.

Such precautions do not protect when the one who abducts your child is one of the trusted teachers.

"She taught kindergarten," Paola manages later, when she's calmer. "Arthur wasn't even in her class. I don't understand. Why Arthur? Why my little boy, why did she take him?"

All Sophia can do is assure her friend that such people do not operate using normal logic, which works in her favor because such a person is bound to make a mistake eventually. Right? Of course. This woman will make a mistake, and Arthur will be found.

"The police told me that seventy-five percent of kidnap victims are killed within the first three hours." Paola's voice is hollow again, without emotion.

Sophia cannot believe the police would tell a mother such an awful thing. "That's ridiculous. Arthur's alive, Paola. He is, don't you dare think otherwise."

After that, there isn't much more to say, and the women on opposite sides of the Atlantic Ocean hang up their phones. Sophia waits until morning to tell Thomas, who doesn't understand at first, and when he does he doesn't cry, he is angry. He is angry at the faceless woman who has stolen his young friend from him, and for a moment Sophia is almost afraid of her son, whose rage can't be denied even if he is only eight years old.

They will find Arthur. They must.

 

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

 

A month passes, then two, six, a year, three years.

Arthur isn't found.

 

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

 

There is something maddeningly familiar about the point man from the moment Eames meets him. It's an odd feeling, as though there are promises he needs to keep (and miles to go before he sleeps) and cannot remember what they are.

They spend a good week without knowing each other's names because their extractor—a man Eames has never met and knows only by reputation—has yet to make an appearance and this point man is perhaps the most reticent person Eames has ever met. By the end of that week, he's stared quite enough for an entire army of handsome forgers, and he believes the pretty point man just might be getting annoyed with him. But Eames can't remember the last time he forgot a face, and this one—attractive as it is, one would think he would remember—is one he _knows_. He just doesn't know from where.

"Next time I have to ask you to stop staring, I'll ask with a gun in your face." The man speaks without looking away from his laptop.

"Are you certain we haven't met?" Eames asks instead of honoring the threat with a direct response.

"Absolutely."

"Might help if we introduced ourselves."

"I'm aware of who you are, Mr. Eames."

Eames can't help himself, he's impressed. There are very few avenues by which anyone could find out his name without being told and no other point man until now has managed to find any of them. He grins. "That's sweet, darling, but I'm afraid I can't boast the same."

The man finally looks up from his work, mouth set in a thin, aggravated line, eyebrows knotted together, looking very much like a child who is angry because the world won't bend to his will ( _because the sand won't stick_ ). "My name is Arthur."

 _Oh._

This is certainly not the first man Eames has ever met with that name, but his reaction is always the same. His mind always jolts, takes him back, reminds him of a little boy mostly forgotten except in stories, and those so few and far between because Paola doesn't speak often about her long-missing son, and Sophia respects her friend. Next is the sweep of his eyes across the Arthur's features, looking for something familiar, and it has never come. There's always too little a resemblance, the man has coloring too light to be Arthur, or features too broad, or eyes not the right shade of dark brown. He can't help it, though, and has wondered more than once how often does Paola do the same? How often does Paola search the face of young men who look the right age, how often does she hear the name Arthur only to be disappointed at what she sees?

This time, Eames' heart begins to race when he can find nothing, no single thing, to tell him without doubt that this man is not _that_ Arthur, can't possibly be. He's around the right age, the right coloring, and his eyes are dark, the same way Paola's are, though they might not be exactly right. Might, but Eames hasn't seen _that_ Arthur since he was eight years old.

 _It's the way he frowns._

Before he can recover, Eames finds the barrel of a gun pointed squarely between his eyes. "I don't bluff, Mr. Eames."

"Indeed you don't, Arthur. Excuse me."

The extractor—a moody man named Cobb, with a criminal past and apparently two kids waiting for him—finally shows up the next day with apologies and a woman in his head who likes to spoil their plans and shoot without provocation.

The job gets done, not without a few hitches thanks to the deceased Mrs. Cobb, and it's a while before Eames sees Arthur again. When he does, he manages to make the young man furious within minutes by asking a simple question ( _"What do your parents think about this dream sharing business, hmm?"_ ), and it's nearly a full year before Cobb can convince Arthur to work with him again.

"What did I say?" he asks once on the phone, after Cobb calls to ask for his help with assurances Arthur won't be involved this time.

Cobb is silent, until there's a sigh. "There's not much I can tell you. Arthur's an orphan, and the foster system wasn't kind to him. Anything after that isn't mine to say, you understand?"

Eames understands.

 

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

 

There is real affection there, now, when he looks in Arthur's dark eyes, when he sees a smirk twitch over Arthur's lips. Eames isn't sure how it happened, or when, only that somehow he's managed to go from being an unwanted irritation to being only slightly annoying and not quite unwanted.

It isn't until after the inception job that it goes further than affectionate looks.

It's a celebration of sorts, Eames supposes, and he doesn't expect to see Arthur at the bar, but there he is, all straight lines and sharp edges. Eames buys him a drink, then Arthur buys, and then they're in a hotel room (he's not sure whose), their mouths hot against each other, hands seeking, they're on the bed and it's near dawn before Eames falls asleep.

To his shock and awe, Arthur is still there in the morning. Then again, on second look, it appears to be Arthur's hotel room after all.

Eames rises as slowly as he can, and succeeds in getting to his feet without waking the man still breathing deeply in the bed. Though he shouldn't, though he knows Arthur will be angry with him for so many reasons, Eames retrieves his cell phone from his pants and snaps a picture. It isn't the best picture, as Arthur is lying on his stomach, but his face is clear enough. As he walks barefoot from the bedroom to the open room and kitchen area, Eames' fingers fly over the touch-screen.

He hesitates before tapping 'send.'

Arthur will be so angry.

Eames hits 'send' anyway.

Immediately after, he dials a number he tries not to dial, and he'll get rid of the cell phone after. A staff member answers, as usual, but when Eames gives his name, and the call is transferred to the number he will never, _ever_ dial. He has too many enemies.

"Thomas, where have you been this time? Honestly, if I have to send more money—"

"I don't need money, Mum." Once, bloody once and the woman will never let him forget it. "I won't need money for a while. I sent you an email."

"Why are you mumbling, Thomas?"

"It's early here, Mum."

"Oh, I see, you have company then, do you?" He can hear her on the other end, typing on her personal computer. "It _isn't_ early there, Thomas, it's past noon where you are."

"Early for me, then."

She snorts, and for a moment Eames wonders just whose mother she is.

He can hear the moment she sees the picture. He hears her gasp, and the series of thunks as her phone falls to the desk and then the floor. There's a moment of silence before she comes back on the line. "Are you _certain_?"

"I had hoped you could help with that. His name is Arthur."

His mother breathes out, slowly. "Arthur. Oh, Thomas. How?"

What should he tell her? He doesn't know much other than what Cobb told him, and if this is _that_ Arthur, how did he go from abductee to orphan to deadly point man? "It isn't important, not right now, at least. Do you still have that photo of Paola and Arthur? From their visit?"

"Yes, of course."

"Email it to me." Thank God his mother is computer literate and Internet savvy. "I need to see it for myself. If I can see, I'll know."

"I will. And Thomas?"

"Yeah?

"Must you boff every man you find named Arthur?"

It's his turn to snort. "Just send the photo, Mum."

When he hangs up the phone, Arthur is standing in the doorway between the living room and the bedroom. His face is shuttered. Eames offers a wary greeting, unsure of how much Arthur heard. "Good morning, love."

Arthur is quiet for a long moment, dark eyes studying Eames, before he finally steps closer, over to the couch where Eames sits, and leans over to kiss him. "Good morning."

Eames smiles. "Mm, I feel oddly domestic. Shall I see if there's enough in the kitchen for a fry up, or call room service?"

"You cook?"

"I push food around in a pan over the stove. It's usually edible."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "I'll call room service for the ingredients to make breakfast. Which _I_ will cook."

"Oh, then breakfast will be _good_ as well as edible." He grins as Arthur continues to the kitchen without answering. In Eames' hand, his phone beeps to alert him to an email. He listens to the sound of Arthur moving around, can almost see the way he picks out only the pans he needs, only the cups he needs, no more. He can see each of Arthur's movements, graceful but brief, using only the required amount of energy.

Somewhere in the back of his mind lives a little boy in a sandbox with the most adorable glower, serious dark eyes and a mother who loved him very much.

Eames opens his email on his phone, opens the attachment with the photo, heart pounding. What he sees shocks him only because he simply cannot believe how the world can work so perfectly.

The boy in the photo, the one being hugged by a smiling Paola Esposito, shares his features with the man currently arranging breakfast. They have the same mouth, the same chin, cheekbones, and those eyes, Paola's dark eyes she passed to her son, the brows arched above them, the same brows Eames has seen draw together in annoyance or concentration.

"Bloody hell."


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promises must be kept, even if it's a long road home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry… the prompt was so adorabible, and I've turned it into angst and drama…. And now there's torture. I have no excuse. I'm just an angst whore.

**Promises to Keep (Part Two)**

"We must tell Paola, Thomas, this is getting ridiculous!"

It's been almost a year since Eames and Arthur fell into bed together and somehow ended up in something that might, and might not, resemble a relationship.

"Mum, no. Not yet, don't tell her until I tell Arthur, and right now is not the time."

"Why not?"

The bite in her voice is not as uncharacteristic as she would have people believe, and Eames sighs.

It all seems so easy for his mother, who has never seen Arthur shoot a man in the face without remorse, or watched him take down a target from two blocks away with near inhuman accuracy.

Lady Eames hadn't seen the fury in Arthur's eyes when her son asked him a simple, innocent question, nor had Cobb told _her_ how the American foster care system hadn't treated Arthur well.

And his mother doesn't have to see those looks Arthur gives him sometimes, looks that frighten Eames because they are wary, speculative. In those moments Eames is certain his lover is rethinking their entire arrangement. Rethinking Eames, and the trust Arthur places in him (which isn't much, but isn't _nothing_ , either, which in itself is a near miracle), and possibly considering shooting him in the head in the middle of the night to be rid of the inconvenience of trust.

Cobb is, as far as Eames can tell, the only one who knows the particulars of Arthur's past and Eames suspects it isn't because Arthur told him. Unfortunately, Eames also suspects telling Arthur the truth and earning his belief will involve Arthur telling him everything.

"Just trust me, Mum, it isn't so easy as just telling him. Arthur isn't the most trusting of men."

Her sigh, shaky and hiding more emotion than most people would think her capable of, tugs at his heart in a way not much does these days. "All right. I don't like it, Thomas, it isn't right, but I won't tell her until you say otherwise."

"Thanks, Mum," he says, no small amount of relief in his voice, which he gives her because this, if nothing else, will convince her of how serious he is about Arthur.

It does, and backfires. "One other thing," she says, and her tone has changed. This is the tone none of her children ever argue with because there's no point in trying, and the results are not worth the trouble. "You _will_ bring him for a visit. Soon."

"Mum, I—"

"I promise to make certain Paola isn't here and doesn't drop in, and I promise not to say anything to him. This has nothing to do with that."

Eames is suspicious. "Then why?"

"Because, my dear Thomas, you've wanted to marry this boy since you were seven years old. Bringing him home to the family is only the proper thing to do, of course."

"Oh." He can feel an embarrassing heat rising to his face. Bloody—she _would_ have to bring that up. "Fine. I'll do my best, but I can't promise." She tries to interrupt, but he won't let her. "It's not like I can just drag him onto a plane, is it? He has to agree."

"Oh, well, I suppose."

"I'll let you know. Good-bye, Mum."

Immediately after hanging up, Eames groans and flops back on the bed. Brilliant, just bloody _brilliant_ , now he has to somehow convince Arthur to have a meet up with the parents, when there is every possibility Arthur may not consider what they have to be so formal, and at any rate, may be planning to murder him in his sleep.

 _This is the man you love. Aren't you just a complete nutter, then?_

"Eames?"

Arthur is in the door, as he so often is, arms crossed, leaned against the doorframe in a manner Eames has come to understand is as close to relaxed as Arthur comes. When he's not in bed, any rate. After a moment of silence, Arthur moves to sit on the edge of the bed, spine steel-straight. "What is it?"

Eames looks up at his lover—is that the proper term for what they are? He doesn't know, and can't begin to think about asking Arthur—tries to think of how to tell him, and comes up empty. "Having a conversation with my mum," he says, cautious, never certain how Arthur will react to mentions of family. The first time he'd ever mention his mother, Arthur had stared at him so long Eames thought his head might explode, and then hadn't spoken to him the rest of the day.

"Oh?" is all Arthur says. He's not looking down, he's looking straight ahead at the undecorated wall. Still, one of his hand moves to stroke Eames' hair, almost idly.

"She wants us to come for a visit."

Arthur's hand stills. "She knows about me?"

With anyone else, he'd say _Of course she knows about you, she's my mum. Mums always know everything._ This is Arthur, however, and Arthur isn't aware of how mothers are always possessed of a sixth sense when it pertains to their children.

"She knows I'm… with someone."

Now Arthur turns his head, and dark eyes meet Eames', mouth thinning. His eyebrows twitch, but don't knot completely, which is a good sign, as far as Eames is concerned. It means there's little or no anger, mostly confusion. "Are you… with someone?"

"Am I? Well, I don't know, darling, but it's easier to let my mum call it that. She's a bit old-fashioned. These sorts of new-fangled arrangements don't make much sense to her." To be honest, though he's had his one-nighters, this arrangement with Arthur doesn't make much sense to him, either. He doesn't know what they are or aren't supposed to be to each other, and while Arthur seems perfectly content with it, Eames is not. He sighs, and in a gentler voice, continues, "I tried telling her you're not the 'meet the parents' type, but she's a bit stubborn."

The comment earns him a twist of one side of Arthur's mouth upward. "Hmm. Sounds familiar."

Eames feels his own mouth twitching in response. "Perhaps."

"Only a little."

"Just a wee bit."

"I'll go."

The shocked silence probably stretches on a bit longer than necessary, but only because Eames honestly cannot figure out how to respond. It's exactly the opposite of what he expected of Arthur. Before he can formulate a verbal response, he sits up, shifting his weight to one side so he can fully face Arthur, who has once more turned away. "You will?"

"I don't have anything better to do, I don't have a job lined up, Dom doesn't need me. I might as well."

Eames studies Arthur's profile, wondering what on God's green Earth is going on inside that lovely head of his, but it's harder to tell when Arthur won't look him straight on so he can read the small expressions. Still, he knows enough to think it might be a bad idea to push further, at least for now, so he leans forward to place a careful kiss on the corner of Arthur's mouth, and says only, "I'll make arrangements, then. When shall we go?"

Arthur pulls his hand away from Eames and stands. "Whenever you want."

 

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

 

They go at the end of the month, giving plenty of time for arrangements on both sides of the pond.

When they arrive, Eames realizes immediately that he hasn't bothered to tell Arthur about his family, but realizes immediately after that it doesn't matter, because this is Arthur. The size of the estate grounds doesn't phase him, nor does the size of the manor. At least, there's no wide open-mouthed shock as there has been with others who didn't know what to expect.

Yet, when they exit the car, Arthur hesitates just outside, eyes moving over the manor and the nearby grounds, pausing at one of the statues guarding the stairs to the front door. Does he remember?

"Arthur?" Eames puts a hand in the small of Arthur's back, a brief gesture, one Arthur normally doesn't tolerate.

"Thomas!"

In seconds they are swarmed by people who should be too British to show such enthusiasm, and there's no time for Arthur to respond. Eames' mother grabs his face and kisses him, then leaves him to the tender mercies of his sisters to turn to Arthur and do the same. It might be amusing if he weren't so concerned about Arthur's reaction.

Fortunately, Arthur takes it all in stride, with quiet, stern dignity, even the part where the Eames girls follow their mother's lead and converge. There's a great deal of shrieking involved, and Eames takes Arthur's hand and pulls him away, shielding him, before he can pull a gun.

"All right, everyone back away, down, girls, down!"

He gives them, all four of them, warning looks. Warning them away from Arthur, and definitely away from mentioning anything about having met him as a child. Mum should have, but who knows what the silly women will say if given half a chance.

"All of you back off. Arthur and I need to clean up, we'll join you for supper."

They give him dirty looks, but leave, and Eames sweeps Arthur into the house and to the room they're going to share, which is _not_ his childhood room because he will not subject himself or Arthur to that. It's really more of a suite, with a spacious room in front with a couple of sofas worth more than a good number of cars, a fireplace, ten thousand dollar rugs and really a mess of other things Eames will never buy for his own home even though he has the money to live any way he wishes. This, this posture and pomp, is not what he wants.

"Lord William and Lady Sophia Eames, hmm?" Arthur asks him quietly, fingers brushing the back of one of the sofas. "If I'd known earlier, I would have given my condolences."

Eames carries their bags to the bedroom, unsure of how to respond because he isn't sure why Arthur brought it up. It was three years ago.

He has half his things unpacked when Arthur appears in the doorway. "I'm sorry."

"What was that?" Eames straightens, holding a shirt, a paisley thing in browns and purples he knows Arthur just _loves_. Over his shoulder, he gives Arthur a grin. "Was that the sound of a miracle?"

By now, Eames has learned to love the small smiles Arthur gives because it doesn't happen often. "You're obnoxious."

"But you're still here."

Arthur takes two measured steps inside the room, calculated, Eames knows, to elicit just the response he gets, which is for Eames to move to meet him, which he does. "I'm still here," Arthur says as Eames takes hold of his hips.

"Would it be in my best interests at all to ask why?"

Arthur's hands slide up the length of Eames' arms. "No."

"Ah. Well, don't you think you should shut me up, then?"

Arthur does, and they're a little late for supper.

 

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

 

They stay for two weeks, and there are times Eames catches Arthur gazing at something, at a piece of furniture, or a place on the grounds, and is certain Arthur's going to turn to him and say he's seen this before, he knows this place, and Eames will finally have an opportunity. His lover stays stubbornly reticent, however.

Staying much longer will result in disaster, because Eames can see his mother's resolve crumbling, can hear his sisters whispering when they think no one is near, and he knows he has to get Arthur out of there before someone isn't careful enough.

So they go home, or rather, to Arthur's home, which is where they usually stay when they stay together.

The very next day Eames is called away on a job, and he leaves Arthur with a kiss. He doesn't promise to come back, because they both know there's always the chance he won't, or the chance Arthur will not want him back.

He does survive, and returns to Arthur's, to find a note on the fridge informing him that Arthur has a job of his own and may be gone a month or more. The note is dated three weeks ago. By the time Arthur returns, Eames has another job, and things become so busy they spend a good three months dancing around each other, rarely together more than a couple of hours. It's maddening for Eames, missing his Arthur more than he thought possible. It's also maddening to wonder if Arthur misses him they same way.

He finds out in Barcelona.

 

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

 

In Barcelona, his luck runs out. In Barcelona, he is caught, and he is tortured. In Barcelona he is kept in a lightless, soundless room except when, at random intervals, the lights strobe and loud metal music blares, only to go quiet again. In Barcelona, he is given injections that cause pain, especially during the sensory overload periods. In Barcelona, there are men and women who do things to him he will never speak aloud, things that break his cocky exterior.

In Barcelona, in the dark, he thinks of Arthur.

There are no clocks, no calendars; he has no idea of how long he's been there, or how long ago he last saw or heard anything. The only sensation in his body is pain, and after a while, when that is the only thing he's known, even that begins to blunt against the dark and soundlessness.

If there were a thought left in his head, he might wonder when is the last time the lights came on or the music blasted.

The door opens. Eames jerks, an arm moving to cover his face purely on instinct.

"Eames." The voice is familiar, the touch is gentle, but Eames can't think through the blinding pain in his skull, in his hands, his feet, and everywhere else. "God," the voice lowers, a whisper now, both distressed and furious, "Eames. What— _fuck_. I'm going to—stay here, Eames. I'll be back."

There is a touch to his forehead, it might be gentle, he doesn't know because after all this time, after the drugs, after only being touched in ways that cause agony, this sensation flares across his skin so brightly he gasps.

Then he is alone again. The door stays open, but the light never dims. Outside, he can hear—he can _hear_ —things that pound through his ears. Later, he will realize these are gunshots and screams, but right now he can't make sense of anything.

Eventually, the sounds die, all except a steady click, click, click, what he doesn't know are shoes on tile, until that stops as well and the gentle hand and voice is back. "In here!" the voice calls, and reaches a higher octave, breaking. Eames groans as he's partially lifted from the floor in someone's arms. "Shhh, it's all right. I'm here. Damn it, Dom, _get in here and help me!_ " This last, the voice shrieks, and Eames has one thought before he loses consciousness.

 _He can't be panicking, he never panics._

 

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

 

A week later, Eames wakes in a hospital in Barcelona.

Arthur is there. It takes Eames far too long to remember his name, but when he calls it, Arthur stands and is at his side immediately. This time, the kiss on his forehead feels only like a kiss, and the best thing he's ever felt in his life.

Tears fall, and then something like panic, like terror, but not really either, rises in Eames' chest and he's shaking. He tries to recall the man he was before, tries to remember how to let things roll over him, how to grin, to laugh when there's nothing to laugh at. He tries to remember how to throw off a snarky comment and pretend he isn't hurting. It isn't as though he's never been tortured before. Yet, he can't stop himself from shaking, and he can't figure out why this time is different.

Arthur is there until he falls asleep again, and when he wakes, it's Cobb, and Arthur is gone.

Then it's Ariadne, and to his shock, Yusuf and even Saito take their turns. Arthur doesn't come back, not for a while, but when he does there's a cold smile on his lips and satisfaction in his eyes, and something inside Eames relaxes.

The doctors in Barcelona want to keep him, but Eames wants to go home.

Arthur looks at the doctor with his cold eyes and says, "I'm taking him home tomorrow. Have everything prepared."

The doctor doesn't argue, and in the morning, Arthur helps load Eames on a private jet supplied by Saito. The businessman is there, as are all the people Eames can call friends, all of whom are maddeningly gentle with him. Eames supposes, though, that if their gentleness is all that irritating, it must speak well for his potential recovery.

The only one who doesn't annoy him at one time or another is Arthur, and that's because he's Arthur, and the way he silently sits next to Eames, their hands threaded together by the fingers, and quietly responds to any requests—it is both purely Arthur and extremely unusual. While Ariadne prattles on about her coursework (and Eames knows he's being a little unkind to her, but really, he couldn't care less), Eames watches Arthur, takes strength from the calm solidity of the man he's wanted to marry since they were boys.

 _It's time._

 

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

 

In fact, the time doesn't come for several weeks.

It isn't that Eames doesn't want to tell Arthur, it's simply that there's little opportunity.

At first, they are constantly surrounded by friends who are only being good friends, but make private moments entirely impossible. Eames can't be very angry with them, because he does require some help in getting around at first, and Arthur is responsible for things such as keeping the house stocked with necessities. He doesn't have to take a job. Both of them are independently wealthy thanks to the inception job, and Saito is generous with his influence. Someone, however, has to be the one to shop for the proper equipment and medicines, then bring them home.

Yusuf usually shops for groceries, at least until he can't stay away from his den of illicit dream-sharing any longer.

Ariadne has to leave no long after, going back to school.

Cobb is in and out as his rather boringly civilian life with his children allows. It's Cobb who tells him what he knows of what Arthur did to the men who held and tortured him. Eames sleeps well that night, and though his dreamed are of blood and death, for once it isn't his own and he can consider that a night of sweet dreams indeed.

Finally, there comes a day when Arthur is there, the others have all gone, and Eames has his lover to himself.

He rises from his chair, and Arthur's eyes lift to watch him; Arthur doesn't say anything, but Eames knows that look by now. "I'm only going to get the laptop, darling, and you know I have to walk around and lift things on my own if I'm to have my mannish figure back."

Arthur snorts, and that's the extent of his response.

As he retrieves the laptop—really Arthur's laptop, though they share it now—he tries to imagine how Arthur will respond and can't, can't even begin. Beautiful, serene, deadly, Arthur's never been the easiest man to read.

Back on the sofa, with Arthur in the chair next to him, Eames brings up his email, finds the oldest email he has saved, and opens the attachment. "Arthur," he says, "I have something to show you, but first I have a question."

Arthur looks up at him, places the newspaper he's reading on his lap, the folds his hands over it in a perfect posture of patient expectation. As usual, there's no expression on his face, and now there are no little signs, no small ticks or lines where they normally aren't to give Eames even the slightest idea if Arthur suspects what's coming.

Oh well. Only one way to find out.

"What happened to your parents?"

The only indication of Arthur's feelings is the way his hands twitch, only once, but enough. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Eames takes a breath, and says the thing that might destroy everything. "Please, Arthur. Just trust me."

 _"Arthur isn't the most trusting of men."_

Arthur's fingers tighten. His eyelids half close over his eyes for a moment, a gesture Eames recognizes as Arthur cutting himself off from things outside himself that caught discomfort. "I don't see how that's important."

Sighing, Eames runs a hand through his hair. "For one, I think we're past the point where you should be able to trust me with that sort of thing," he says, and continues on when Arthur tries to interrupt. "For another, it is actually relevant to what I have to show you, but I need to know. Please. Arthur. _Trust me._

Even then, even after everything, Arthur doesn't answer immediately. Eames waits, waits longer than he thinks he can, or should, and eventually the cliché wins out and good things come.

"I don't know what happened to my father. I can't remember him. I barely remember my mother. She died of a drug overdose when I was six."

"Did she." It's more a musing than a question, and Arthur knows it to judge from his frown. "All right," he says, before Arthur can snap at him, "I said I have something to show you, and I do. Come here."

Arthur rises, his expression closed, and moves to a place where he can peer over Eames' shoulder.

The picture is the same as it's always been, though perhaps better quality than the original thanks to better photo-restoring technology. The woman is the same, eyes dark, smile bright, arms wrapped tightly around the boy who defined her life. The boy was the same as well, serious and a younger version of the man standing over Eames.

The first thing Arthur says is not at all what Eames expects.

"I know her. That's Paola Jones, the chef."

There's a tightness in Arthur's voice. Eames looks up and over his shoulder to see Arthur's eyes firmly on the image of Paola.

"It is. And that's you."

After a moment more of refusing, Arthur finally drops his eyes to the boy in the photo. "I don't understand."

Eames closes the laptop, sets it aside, and tugs on Arthur's arm. A testament to how well they both have grown to know each other, Arthur doesn't say a word, merely moves around the sofa to sit next to Eames, facing him, back straight and hands cold. Eames takes those hands without fear now, holding them firmly.

"Paola Jones used to be Paola Esposito, before she married Trip Jones." He speaks as softly as he can manage without being condescending. "In that photo, she was twenty-one years old, and her son Arthur, _you_ , were four. Not long after that, a woman working at the daycare kidnapped you." Arthur's fingers tighten on his, but his eyes do not so much as flutter. "Her name, at least the name she gave the daycare, was Sarah Sorrenson. The police searched her place and found enough evidence to show she'd been planning abduction for quite some time, she just needed the right child."

"Me."

Eames shrugs. There's no possible way to explain what went on in the head of this woman so many years ago, a woman who was also, apparently, a drug addict. He can feel Arthur's fingers tightening on his even more, and because he knows Arthur, can feel the rage in that grip.

"The police searched. As far as I know there's still a case on you, but it's probably considered closed." He breathes deeply before going forward. "Paola never gave up. She's always been looking for you."

"How do you know?" Arthur's eyes are narrowed now, and hard as well as cold.

This is where they will break, if they are going to break. This is the moment Eames has dreaded since the moment he _knew_ without a doubt it would come. He won't lie, he _can't_ , not to Arthur, who needs only truth from him from now on if they will ever survive this moment.

"My mother and yours are good friends. Have been since before you were taken." His mouth twitches in a smile, but it's half-hearted. "We were friends then, too, you were three when we met and I was seven. You and your mother came to visit us—"

That's when Arthur pulls his hands away with a vicious snap.

"How long have you known?"

"I suspected when we first met," he replies, barely able to bring his voice above a whisper. "I've known since just after the inception job. Arthur, please—"

Arthur stands and turns from him, fingers curling inward. He might punch Eames, he can, there isn't much Eames can do to stop him if that's what he wants, but in the end it isn't what he does. Instead, he walks away, to the front door, where he grabs his coat from the stand. He leaves without a word, and Eames has to close his eyes against the image in order to breathe again.

 

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

 

When Eames wakes in the morning, the kitchen is cleaned and organized, everything labeled to be easy to locate. There is a list of nearby grocery and other stores that will deliver if necessary. Next to the phone is a list of emergency phone numbers, mostly for Cobb because he's closest, but for Ariadne, Yusuf and Saito as well.

Arthur's things are gone.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promises must be kept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly I hardly know if this has anything to do with the prompt anymore. It gets kinds schmoopy towards the end, though. :D I'm proud of myself. Just, you know, don't expect miracles from our Arthur.

**Promises to Keep (Part Three)**

 

The desk is a study in cluttered order. There are papers, but they are more or less in stacks, and a quick perusal shows the stacks to each be of a particular type of paperwork; near the front right edge rests a pile of invoices, next to that a tilted stack of requests, and on the back left a number of letters from various investors. These are all expected parts of running a business, organized so only the owner will know exactly where everything is, though the disarray is likely not on purpose. The mind behind it is purposeful, but not overly concerned with details.

None of this really matters, anyway. His real prize is in the bottom left drawer. It's locked, but that has never been a deterrent. In moments he's rifled through the contents of that drawer and found a number of letters and papers having nothing at all to do with the business.

He looks up. On the desk between stacks of papers are pictures.

There is one showing dark woman with her arms around a big, red-haired man on one side, and a shorter, thinner dark-haired adolescent. In another picture, the man has a red-haired girl over his shoulder, both laughing, while in the background the teenage boy scowls.

There's a picture of the woman and the man kissing.

And there, tucked in the back, where it will be noticed but will not take away from the newer photos, is a picture of the same woman when she was much younger, smiling brightly, her arms around a boy who does not grow into the scowling adolescent in the other pictures.

Arthur reaches out to pick up that picture in its frame. He's wearing gloves, of course, so there's no chance of fingerprints.

She kept it.

His chest tightens as he studies the picture. The laptop he left with Eames, so he hasn't seen this image since the night he walked out. This one is obviously an original, of lesser quality than current technology allows, faded with time and handling. In it, Paola Esposito always has her first son with her.

 _She kept it._

Why this should surprise him, he can't say for certain, not even to himself. Some part of him must have been certain that when she married and had two other children— _my half-siblings_ —she would have forgotten all about him. That she obviously hasn't is something about which Arthur isn't sure how he should feel. He supposes Eames would think him insane, but he cannot imagine simply walking into this woman's life and letting her see every part of him. No matter his final decision, there are parts of him he will never want her to see.

How can a man such as he ever learn to be a son?

Carefully, Arthur replaces the picture, careful to set it exactly in the position it was in before, then returns to the real reason for being here.

Two days before, while everyone was either at work or school, he'd broken in to the Jones house to search for a certain type of documentation, and had been disappointed to find nothing. Disappointed and, if he were to be completely honest, just a little vindicated. Finding no proof meant he had every right to be angry, to walk away from this and never look back. He's lived most of his life without knowing this woman, he can continue not to know her and be perfectly happy.

 _Even if it means losing Eames._

In his hands, however, taken from a drawer where neither husband nor children were ever likely to look, is proof.

In one manila envelope is a copy of the police records on his case. The report taken from the daycare workers, from Paola, and records compiled on the woman who called herself Sarah Sorrenson. There's a complete file of photographs of the daycare as well as Sorrenson's apartment, as well as copies of the résumé Sorrenson used to apply for her position and the listed references. There's nothing here he doesn't already know, other than how detailed Paola's attempts have been.

What interests him more is the separate file of letters complied over twenty-four years.

Many are from various police officers over the years, beginning with calm assurances that they haven't forgotten her case, ending with equally calm assurances that the case is cold, and at this point there's very little new evidence. One is attached to a printout of statistics, with one line highlighted: the hard truth of how many kidnap victims survive their experiences.

Yet, the letters continue, dated far beyond that time, and more and more are from private detectives in various cities throughout the country, even one or two in other countries. One or twice, he sees, one of them came close; there are pictures included with one letter of a small, run-down house Arthur barely recalls, the place where the woman he remembers as his mother finally shot up too much too often. Shockingly, it's listed as the last known location of Tammy Hodgins, a.k.a. Gina Pierce, a.k.a. Sarah Sorrenson. There's nothing in the letter about Sorrenson's drug overdose. It's all Arthur can do not to crumple the paper in his anger. So close, the idiot had been _so close_ , but missed that one, vital piece of information. If he'd just found out about Sorrenson's death, if he'd thought to check the foster care system… if, if, if….

 _A flash of memory, of shadows and small spaces, of chanted prayers and pain across his backside. He is a quiet boy, a serious boy, a_ different _boy. The devil is in him, they say, and the devil must be driven out._

Arthur closes his eyes brief against the memory. It doesn't matter, none of that matters. It isn't who he is, not anymore.

 _Isn't it? Isn't it why you're here, and not with Eames? Why you're here, not meeting Paola properly?_

 _Shut up._

His head is down, hands in the drawer to replace the letters when he hears a sound in the hallway outside Paola's office. Arthur closes the drawer swiftly at the same time as he ducks down, sliding behind the far side of the desk from the door. His lanky frame folds easily to hide him completely.

For the first time in years, Arthur's breath catches in his throat. There's only one door out of the office. No one is supposed to be here, he checked all their schedules, he doesn't know who it is in the hall, or where they're going. If it's Paola, what will he do? What if it's Trip, or the kids, Anthony or Pia? His normal reaction to being trapped is to shoot first and never ask questions. That will not serve him here and now, nor does it give him an answer as to what he's going to do instead.

The door opens, and Arthur tenses. Footsteps, something landing on the desk, and then Arthur lets out a slow breath when the footsteps head back out and the door closes.

He waits, and when he's reasonably sure of being alone in the building he slides out from behind the desk, still in a crouch, moving silently to the door. Slowly, he reaches up, takes the doorknob and turns. He has patience, he must in his line of work, but now he breaks a sweat as he waits to see if someone notices the knob moving. No one does, and he opens the door just a crack, peering out.

The lights in the hall are off, but luminosity streams down the hallway from the main room of the restaurant. Arthur can hear someone moving in there, and silently curses himself for not being more prepared.

 _This was your job, we are not prepared for this!_

Arthur slides out of the office door, closes it silently, then makes his equally silent way down the hall to the double-sized doorway leading to the main room. A quick peek around the door shows him the big red-haired man: Trip Jones, Paola's husband and fellow chef.

 _My step-father._

He can, if he's careful, slip past the open doorway and through the kitchen, then out the back door of the building. It's quick, it's easy, and it doesn't involve confrontation. Confrontation is bad, especially in this situation, where no matter how curious he may be—though he's not curious, not at all, he has no reason to be—there is no possible way for him to explain his presence here.

In the end, he goes the easy route, out the back door, and Trip never knows he's there.

 

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

 

Arthur exits the plane, and before anything else, before even retrieving his luggage, he goes outside the airport to light a cigarette. He hasn't smoked in years, but of all the destructive habits he's left in his past, smoking is the least destructive of them all and the easiest, at least for him, to cast off. He goes through two cigarettes before he's prepared to gather his luggage, and another three waiting for the taxi to pick him up. He absolutely feels vindicated in the smoking, considering the level of stress he's under.

In the taxi, he takes out his latest cell phone and makes a call. "I'm on the ground safely. Are you sure he's here?"

"He said he didn't want to be alone," Cobb replies, "and I can't think of anywhere else he'd go when feeling lonely."

Arthur feels a smile trying to escape, and allows it to cross his lips for a brief second. "I'll be sure to tell him how predictable he is."

"Only when it comes to you."

Cobb hangs up, to Arthur's shock. He stares at the cell phone for several moments before flipping it closed to return to his pocket. _Only when it comes to you._ What was that supposed to mean?

Only then does he realize his hands are shaking.

Half an hour later, the taxi pulls in to the estate's three-mile long drive, the shaking only gets worse, and Arthur has to practically put himself in a meditative state in order to calm himself enough to be able to face Eames. It doesn't help that he neither called or wrote before flying to England; he almost loses all his hard-won control when he become conscious of the fact that he is terrified of what will happen when he sees Eames.

He knew, long before Eames told him the truth, that there was something the other man kept from him. He knew because Eames was good, but Arthur was slightly better, and while he'd never been able to catch an entire conversation, there is one phrase that stays in his mind: _"Arthur is not the most trusting of men."_ It's all the more terrible for its truth. At that moment, he understood that whatever Eames kept from him, he kept because he didn't know how to say it; Arthur's own lack brought this on, and Eames cannot be blamed for being unsure of how to deal with him.

This, of course, hadn't stopped Arthur from blaming him anyway.

Lady Eames meets him at the door, face set in an expressionless mask so bland even Arthur must commend her, and even Arthur is a little afraid. This woman greeted him warmly only six months before, but now she is like ice to him.

"I suppose you've come looking for Thomas."

"I am."

"If I told you he isn't here?"

"I wouldn't believe you."

Her eyes reveal nothing. "I suppose you wouldn't. Come in, but do not presume to speak to Thomas before you and I speak."

"Of course not."

They speak over tea, and to say they speak really means that Lady Eames speaks a great deal and Arthur is tasked simply to listen.

"Thomas is not well," she tells him, and though Arthur wants nothing more than to get up and go to him, the look in her steel grey eyes tells him to remain seated and to shut up. "He won't speak of it, but I know he's been through something difficult." Her lips thin, and her nostrils flare just the tiniest bit. "He is scarred, and I don't just mean the new scars on his body. He says he came here out of loneliness—and never you mind the whys of his loneliness, Arthur, we will come to that—yet he mostly stays in his room. He rarely eats. I'm not certain how much he sleeps."

At this point in her speech, the Lady pauses and looks at him, one eyebrow elegantly arched higher than the other. Arthur realizes he is meant to say something, though he isn't sure exactly what he can or should say. He's supposed to know everything all the time, but to be honest he's never quite understood this sort of high-society pretentiousness. He can emulate it, but it's an imperfect emulation at best; his last visit on the Eames estate did not involve it, as then he'd been welcome as part of the family.

"He'll tell you when he's ready," is what he says, knowing it unsatisfactory.

" _Don't_ condescend to me, Arthur," she snaps, and beneath the posturing Arthur can tell she is genuinely worried for her son. "I know very well my Thomas is involved in things he'd rather I not know. He changes addresses and telephone numbers far too often. He won't tell me a blessed thing. Unfortunately, that leaves me ill-equipped to help him."

"Hmm."

She gives him a shrewd look over her teacup. "If it were up to me, I'd have you thrown out on your arse." Something about the way she says it, perhaps because a Lady isn't supposed to be so crude, brings a smile to Arthur's lips, one that dies quickly under her glare.

"It isn't up to you?"

"Unfortunately, no. Thomas wants to see you; he just didn't know how to find you."

Arthur's stomach turns over, then the other way, alternating between a pleasant flutter knowing Eames still wants to see him, and a less pleasant knot of guilt. "Did he tell you why?"

"Why what?" she asks, tone clipped. "Why you left him?" Arthur nods. "He mentioned something about cowardice."

"He told me… about Paola."

"I thought as much." Lady Eames doesn't miss a beat. She and her son are so much alike. "May I say that Thomas was right, and you are a coward?"

He smiles. "You may call me anything you want, Lady Eames. I deserve it."

Her lips purse momentarily, he thinks to hide traces of a smile. Lady Eames is the type to be amused by someone else's self-deprecation, especially when it's in line with her own opinions. He doesn't blame her; she's right about him, and is probably right about most people. "Thomas is asleep. You know where to find him."

Arthur rises immediately, his chest constricting. It's three in the afternoon, and Eames is asleep. He knows where to go, remembers the room they shared the last time he was here, as bare of personality as any guest or hotel room.

He finds Eames in bed, as promised, and he looks terrible. The man has lost weight, and he has the exhausted look of someone who either sleeps all the time or doesn't sleep at all. Arthur sits on the bed carefully, and tugs the blankets down to see Eames' neck and shoulders. There are scars there, relatively new on the map of Eames' body, and Arthur remembers when those scars were fresh wounds that he helped to stitch and bind until they could get Eames to a real hospital. They are white and raised against the rest of his skin. Arthur touches one, running his finger along its length.

Eames shivers, gasps, and opens his eyes. "Arthur."

"Apparently, I still am."

"You left."

"I did. I'm sorry." He touches Eames' forehead, brushing back the hair that's grown out some since the last time he saw Eames. "I had to, but I shouldn't have left the way I did."

This is the moment he's dreaded, more than meeting Lady Eames, dread that's twisted his stomach until he thought he would be sick. Except Eames chuckles softly and turns over to lie on his back, smiling at him. "Stubborn. Always have to do things your own way, hmm?"

Now it's Arthur's chest that tightens, but for a different reason altogether. "You know me too well."

"You hate that, don't you?" Eames peers at him through eyes that are haunted by things Arthur knows only through the story of his scars. "That I know you so well. You hate being known."

Arthur's chest releases, and with it, a breath he didn't know he held. His hand lowers from Eames' hair to touch his cheek, then to ghost his fingers over Eames' lips, the full lips he's grown so accustomed to, and that he's not certain anymore he can live without. "Not this time," he says quietly. "This time it's all right." He reaches to find Eames' hand reaching at the same time, and their fingers thread together in a silent but palpable promise.

"You know I will never let you forget this," Eames says after another moment. There's amusement in his voice, but it cracks with something else as well.

Arthur leans down to kiss his mouth. "You have to get well before you can be that annoying, Mr. Eames."

 

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

 

Eames is quick to heal with Arthur beside him, goading him up from bed to dinner, though he doesn't have to goad much. It seems all he waited for was Arthur.

In a way, Arthur almost wishes Eames would take longer to get himself back. The closer to healthy Eames becomes, the closer Arthur is to a meeting for which he isn't sure he's ready. He won't go alone, but Lady Eames has already called Paola, already told her that her son has been found. He gave her permission, but not for a meeting, not yet. Not until Eames can go with him.

"You know she can come here, darling," Eames says to him one day, arms wrapped around his waist. "She'd fall over herself to get here."

"No. Not yet."

Eames sighs, but that's the end of the conversation.

 

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

 

In the nearly twenty-five years since her son was taken from her Paola has come a very long way.

Twelve restaurants bear her name, eight of them in cities around the United States, the rest in other countries. She has a husband she loves and who supports her, a man as dedicated to her craft as she is, and from their marriage she has two other children she loves fiercely. Pia and Anthony are, with Trip, the brightest parts of her life, even if Anthony can be a typically moody teenager.

She doesn't like to think about the dark years between Arthur's kidnapping and the time she met Trip. She has scars from that time, both physical and emotional, to show just how badly she had wanted to forget the pain of losing her first son.

It doesn't help that now she knows where he is, but can't go to him. He's so close, almost within her grasp, but still too far.

He doesn't _want_ to see her.

Somehow, knowing that hurts worse than all those years of not knowing anything.

Trip tries to comfort her. _"Paola, can you imagine what_ he's _going through right now? I'm sure it's not that he doesn't want to see you, but he has to be just as nervous as you are._

Sophia tries to comfort her in that way Paola has decided in not uniquely British after all, but simply uniquely Sophia. _Nonsense, Paola, you're being hysterical. He will love you like everyone else does, he just doesn't know how right now. If he doesn't, then he will have to learn how to live without his legs as I will divest them from him forthwith._

Even Pia, who understands that she has another big brother somewhere, and why he isn't with them, but only in the way a twelve-year old can understand something that hasn't yet affected her personally, tries to comfort her. _You're the best mom in the world. Arthur's going to know that too!_

Only Anthony has nothing to say on the subject of Arthur, but then, being sixteen, Anthony has very little to say on any subject these days, at least to her.

"He's doing all right," says Thomas, and the phone crackles because it's overseas. Paola has already spoken to Sophia about Arthur, but she will take any information at all she can get about her son, and so when Thomas answered the phone on this call, she jumped at the opportunity to speak with him. "There's some ways he's not so different than when he was four. He's still too serious for his own good, I can't help him with the stick permanently lodged up his arse. He seems to _like_ it."

She laughs, because Thomas is funny and it feels good to laugh. "When is he coming?" The question is out before she can stop it. She's tried not to ask it, but it seems her willpower broke when she wasn't looking.

Thomas sighs. "I don't know. I wish I did. He keeps saying when I'm ready to go with him, but I think that's just stalling."

"Why?" She should ask after Thomas' health. She should, but she can't. "Why is he stalling?"

Thomas doesn't answer her for a long moment, a moment she hopes is thoughtful and not an attempt on his part to stall. "I have suspicions on that, including the obvious one being he's nervous. But I think there's more to it, but how much more I can't say. Arthur is a complicated man, and in the end, I think his reasons for this are just as complicated."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. It's just… so hard."

"Trust me, it doesn't get any better once you know him. I—" Thomas is interrupted by another voice, and the sounds of conversation become muffled, presumably by his hand over the receiver. There is a moment of back and forth, then the unmistakable sounds of the telephone changing hands.

"Mrs. Jones."

 _It's him_.

This is his voice, Arthur's voice, she knows it is. There is logic to her conclusion but mostly she _just knows_.

Paola has spent years imagining her son, from what his face looks like to what his voice sounds like, first as a growing boy, then a teenager, then a grown man. It's difficult to put such a thing into coherent words, because in her head there's simply always been a presence she knew as Arthur, a presence she created and maintained because she couldn't keep herself from it, one she knew would never live up to the real Arthur. Now, she hears a voice on the phone, and she knows it's her son.

"Yes?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. In the moment's silence following, she wonders if she should try again, not certain she can force herself to be louder.

"I've eaten at your restaurant. The food is excellent."

Even she knows that as a conversation starter, in this instance, it is an awkward one at best. Yet, somehow, there is complete confidence in his voice. There's no trace of the waver she expects from others who are nervous. It's awkward, but it doesn't _sound_ awkward.

"Thank you." Did she manage to speak above a whisper? She isn't sure.

"Would there be room for Ea—Thomas and myself at your residence next week? We would arrive on Friday."

Paola has a flash of intuition that makes her almost giddy; his speech is incredibly formal, and somehow she knows that means he's nervous. Formality is his retreat. How does she know? She just _does_.

"Of course," she's saying in a breathless rush, "of course, we'll have the guest room ready for you. I can email directions to the house—"

"No need. We'll take a taxi from the airport, and I'll have Thomas or Lady Sophia inform you of our arrival time." A pause. "Good-bye, Mrs. Jones."

"Good-bye, Arthur," she says, even though something tells her he's already taken the phone from his ear.

There's a curse, Thomas picks up the phone again to hastily tell her good-bye as well, and just before he hangs up she can hear him shouting, "Arthur, you great big _arse_ —"

Then they're gone, and Paola hangs up on her end, already laughing. She's not laughing because of Arthur's formality, or because of Thomas' cursing. She's not even laughing because Arthur is coming to see her finally and she's so relieved, though she is.

She's laughing because she heard his voice.

 

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

 

A week later, plans have changed. Paola isn't waiting at home, she's waiting in her restaurant, the first one she ever owned, and where she does all of her best cooking. It's after hours, and Pia and Anthony are at home. A full family reunion with mother, step-father and half-siblings may be too much for Arthur.

She doesn't want him to go screaming the moment he walks inside.

Trip is here, but he's in the kitchen, cooking. A trait of all the best married couples, they have decided without discussion not to introduce Trip unless Arthur asks about hm. This moment, this dinner, is for her.

It's almost nine o'clock, late for dinner, but Arthur and Thomas' flight arrived at eight, and this allows for them to have the restaurant to themselves. Paola sighs, pacing between tables, wishing they were here already, wishing Thomas wouldn't be there, grateful he will be, wondering and waiting and not very good at that last. Nine comes and goes and still no Arthur, until Paola is ready to start calling the hospitals, though she doesn't know what he looks like.

She's on her way to the kitchens to discuss options with Trip when the bell above the door chimes; it's a quiet bell in the middle of a business day, but now it carries through the entire restaurant. "He's here," she whispers to herself, then turns to meet her son.

If she hadn't been waiting for this moment for twenty-five years, she might not believe him real. As it is, he's like something from a magazine, sleek and untouchable, not quite genuine. She knows it's him, he has her eyes, and as a child he may have been otherwise a carbon copy of his father, but as an adult he's grown into more of her features—some noticeable, like their lips, and some more subtle, like the shape of his face in comparison to hers, both of them long and lean. His hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place, and she suspects this is the way he prefers his life to be, nothing out of place. It helps lessen the pain of having to wait so long.

The suit he wears is perfection, but it's an Armani and looks tailored to fit him and only him. For her, he is her son who has obviously made something of himself, but she can imagine the sorts of glances he receives from men and women.

Thomas, for example, who is right behind him. Paola's seen him a few times over the years, but not much since he hit seventeen and left his parents' home and all that inheritance. He's big now, somewhat less concerned with perfection than her Arthur, all solid muscle and sinuous grace. There is something of the violent about him, something she can't name, and doesn't think she wants to because some of it clings to Arthur.

Some of it is Arthur's own.

Across the room, Arthur sees her. There is no change of expression, not even the flutter of an eyelash to serve as proof of emotion. The only thing, and she might be imagining it, is the flex of his throat muscles as he swallows.

"Paola!" Thomas, as always, throws himself into any situation, and comes to her, arms wide. He practically lifts her off her feet with his bear hug. "You're beautiful, as always."

She rolls her eyes, she can't help it when he's hamming it up the way he does. "Stop it, or I might have to sic my husband on you." He makes a show of flinching away, and she laughs even though she can see the white stripe of a new scar peeking up over the collar of his shirt.

 _"I worry, Paola. My boy is neck deep in something I'm afraid will catch up with him sooner or later."_  
Something Arthur is involved in as well? God, she hopes not.

He is there, having crossed the room while she spoke with Thomas. She can't see any emotion in his eyes or his face as he looks down at her. It's driving her crazy and all she can do to keep sane is think about how serious a child he was, how formality must be his way of staving off nerves, that he must be as nervous somewhere under all that stoicism as she is, but simply cannot bring himself to show it.

"Arthur," she says, and tries to smile. It doesn't feel right to her; it doesn't feel like a smile, it feels like her mouth stretched over every heartache and disappointment. The urge is in her to just wrap her arms around him and hold him until the end of time, but that, she thinks, would drive this man away.

In the end, she offers a hand to him, one that he takes after only a moment's hesitation. Her three-quarter sleeves do not hide the scar running up and down her wrist, but she knows that, and doesn't try to hide it, not from him, not from anyone.

"Mrs. Jones."

She wants to tell him not to call her that, but if not that, and not "mom," then what?

"Dinner's almost ready," is what comes out. "Why don't we have a seat?"

They do, and for a long time it's Thomas who carries the conversation. Paola listens, smiles, and watches them. It's all there in the way Arthur's mouth twitches as Thomas speaks, his brows arch, and the corners of his eyes crinkle just a little in response to something Thomas says. It's by observing his reactions to Thomas that Paola learns to read her son's emotions, or at least to read his expressions. He is quite full of emotion when he doesn't try to suppress it, and oddly that reassures her.

Three hours later, after food and wine, after the awkward questions about his job that earn her a load of bullshit, after she considers asking about what happened to him after his kidnapping but takes Thomas' pre-emailed advice not to, Paola is about to invite them to retreat with her back to her home when Thomas interrupts.

"Paola, do you remember the question I asked the day we all first met?" He's looking at the table, his fingers fiddling with his napkin. "I remember it mostly because my mother won't let me forget it."

"Oh, Thomas, that was forever ago. You'll have to remind me."

"I asked for your permission to marry Arthur."

Oh. Now it's her turn for her mouth to twitch. "I remember. I think my response was that you were too young."

Across from her, next to Thomas, Arthur frowns slightly, his eyebrows coming together. Paola wants to laugh, because he can't possibly be confused over the course of the conversation. He can't possibly be so dense as to not realize why Thomas has brought it up.

"Something like that, yeah. Then you said we'd be betrothed instead."

"Yes, I do believe that was the arrangement."

Arthur's eyes flutter now, before going slightly wider than usual. Already Paola thinks that on him, the look is akin to shock. "Eames, you can't be _serious_. Betrothal isn't—it's something that doesn't—it's _ridiculous_."

Thomas takes his hand. "Then just marry me. Forget about the betrothal, you're right, it is a little ridiculous. But marry me. We'll get married in every country that will recognize it if you want."

"I—" Arthur glances at Paola, who looks away, lifting her hands. It isn't up to her. Not anymore. "If I say no I suppose you'll just insist."

"Every day."

"You'll do horribly embarrassing things like serenade my window."

"Absolutely."

"Leave dozens of stolen roses on my doorstep with badly written poetry attached."

"Increasingly ridiculous antics, darling. You're only giving me ideas."

"Fine."

"Is that a yes?" Thomas' face begins to split into a wide grin even as he asks. "You have to say it, you know how thick my skull is."

"Yes, all right. To spare my ears and my literary sensibilities, I'll marry you." Arthur's voice is absolutely dry, oozing sardonic humor. "Only once, though."

"Once is enough for me. Bloody hell, I'd best call Mum and tell her before someone else does." Thomas levels a glare without malice on Paola as he rises from the table, reaching for his pocket.

"Don't look at me, I'm still sitting right here!" Laughter feels good after a somewhat tense dinner.

Thomas winks, then moves off to have a private conversation with his mother, or at least it will be until Sophia insists on talking to Arthur, as Paola knows she will. It may be early morning where Sophia is, but Thomas is right in thinking she'll want to know immediately. Still smiling, Paola turns to Arthur to find him peering at her, his sharp exterior softened somewhat. He doesn't say anything to her, and she doesn't say anything in return, but there's a difference in their silence. They smile at each other.

Thomas and Arthur stay at a hotel, and it will be two more days before Arthur meets Trip, Pia and Anthony. He never calls her "mom," and he may never, but if he doesn't she thinks she can live with that.

All she really needs from him right now is that smile.


End file.
